


A Still Point In A Turning world

by nicky69



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:18:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicky69/pseuds/nicky69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an indeterminate time frame, early season one or two before things got too heavy or the boys started drifting apart.</p><p>Scene – dean working on the impala in bobby’s yard. It’s his sanctuary, the one place that he can allow himself to really feel safe- to unwind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Still Point In A Turning world

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: this little fic is unbetaed. If the gratuitous use of commas offends you, best you walk away now ; )
> 
> This is just a tiny fic. I was feeling nostalgic and wanted to see Dean relaxed, with nowhere to be and without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The sky is overcast, ugly, bruise coloured clouds obscure the October sun, and cast the day in tones of faded sepia, like an old, worn photograph. However, the breeze that chases leaves round Bobby’s yard like a gaggle of unruly children is unexpectedly warm. 

Dean wipes at the sweat cooling on his brow absently, while taking the time to stretch out back muscles gone stiff from being locked into one position too long. He wipes his hands on a mostly clean rag before reaching out to drop the hood of the Impala back into place.

‘Getting old there, Dean,’ he can almost hear the smirk in Sammy’s voice as he makes fun of his brother, but the man in question is absent, and it’s only his own internal monologue that keeps him company. 

Still, as his back muscles continue to complain about the earlier abuse, he can’t help but think that imaginary Sammy is right- not that he’d ever admit it, or you know, say it out loud. Kid’s head is swollen enough, there’s no need for Dean to go inflating it even more; he’d never hear the end of it.

For now, Sammy’s ensconced on Bobby’s couch, doing what his little geek heart loves best, researching. Dean’s not entirely sure just what it is that’s he’s looking for, but hey, Sammy’s happy, which means Dean’s happy, so it’s a win-win situation all round. As far as Dean is concerned nothing is presently trying to kill them, they have a roof over their head, a home cooked meal to look forward to at the end of the day and a warm, safe place to sleep. Life doesn’t get any better than this; in Dean’s experience today has pretty much been perfect.

Perfect, like the feel of his baby under his hands and the soft sheen of leather worn soft and mellow with age. Perfect, like her throaty purr and the knowledge that his hands alone can draw that sound from her. Perfect, like the smell of gun oil and cheap soap and the warmth of sunlight on glass and chrome.

Reaching down, Dean snags a beer from the cooler at his feet, popping it open with ease and taking a long swallow from the bottle before settling himself carelessly on the lid of the now closed cooler. He can feel the solid bulk of the Impala at his back, the metal just beginning to cool now as the day slips inexorably into evening. Around him, the air vibrates to the sound of "Traveling Riverside Blues" and the chords resonant through the piles of cars in Bobby’s yard, seemingly chasing the last rays of the fading light through canyons of twisted steel and broken glass.

Inside the house someone turns a light on, and it casts a welcoming glow that illuminates Bobby’s front porch. The paintwork is faded and peeling in places, and overall it’s a little worse for wear, much like the man himself, and Dean feels his heart swell with uncommon emotion. Outside his family and his baby, Dean’s never loved anyone or anywhere as much as he loves Bobby and his little slice of automotive Heaven.

Even though he and Bobby have an unspoken agreement to avoid the chick flick moments, Dean knows that in his own gruff way the feeling is mutual. That knowledge, and the knowing of it, transforms this garden of twisted and abused metal into something precious, something that feels almost holy, and man, ain’t that a kicker?

 

Here in this place where others see only broken wreckage, the detritus of the normal world, Dean has found a haven. It may not be home- home is an unattainable Arcadia that burned with his mom, but outside his baby it’s the next best thing. It’s one of very few constants in his ever shifting world, and both the place and the man hold more sway over him than he’ll ever admit.

A wry smile tilts his lips, and he chugs down the last of his beer enjoying the calm before he heads indoors. Tomorrow or the next day, or the one after that they’ll hit the road again, he and Sam, business as usual for the Winchesters, but for now he is content to relax and be still and let the world turn without him.


End file.
